


Achilles, Come Down

by yang_an



Series: Tolkien [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Homeros | Homer (c. 8th Century BCE) References, M/M, The Iliad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yang_an/pseuds/yang_an
Summary: The Fall of Gondolin mixed with elements from Homer’s Iliad, so basically everything is sad and gay and violent and horny (violently horny?). AKA “fellas is it gay to go mad with grief over my fallen homie and in my battle rage, slay 10,000 goblins, kill a maia with my bare hands, and mutilate a dead body by dragging it thrice around Gondolin or nah?” Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s relationship somewhat reflects the one between Achilles and Patroclus, but not entirely.*English is not my first language*
Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel
Series: Tolkien [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023081
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Achilles, Come Down

**Chapter 1 Troy**

Tuor ran, past the Fountain of Kings, skidded in blood and mire, picked himself up, ran, skidded again. Part of his armor had come loose and he picked at the frayed belt-buckle absentmindedly, coughed, spat out blood and bile. The wind came in from the east, carrying the smell of smoke and burning flesh.

Tuor drove his sword into the ground to steady himself, and was momentarily dazed before remembering that he was hurrying towards Ecthelion, Ecthelion who was fending off a horde of goblins alone about fifty paces further down the Square, Ecthelion with his shield arm dangling broken and useless by side, Ecthelion with his eyes crazed as one gone mad. He ran, and his blood went cold as he heard Ecthelion scream, and saw a circle of blinding white light erupting from where Ecthelion was standing, blasting dozens of goblins clean off the ground and sending blood and broken limbs raining down all around.

Ecthelion screamed again in rage, screaming with a blood lust that Tuor had not heard in any elf or man. He did not acknowledge Tuor's coming, did not seem to even recognize him. He was in a world of his own, Tuor realized, sealed by his battle rage into a vortex of frenzied slashing and bashing, leaving a trail of guts as he pushed into the Dark Lord's army alone, all members of his House of Fountain lying dead across the Square of the Folkwell.

He was attracting attention, Tuor saw: two dragons approaching from the South where they had just laid waste to the Lesser Market, and Gothmog himself with his whip and mace coming toward them from the North. 

Ecthelion, in his rage, had tied one of Gothmog's Balrogs to his chariot and dragged it around the Square three times --- the most extreme form of defilement imaginable, the corpse breaking into a pulpy mess and leaving a black and foul-smelling substance behind. And he was still screaming, screaming for Glorfindel.

Glorfindel! where is Glorfindel? Tour searched for a glimpse, any glimpse, of gold hair, but Glorfindel was lost amid the wreckage in the North, his banner had fallen, news were the the House of the Golden Flower had been ambushed near the Alley of Roses, and now Ecthelion had been driven to madness.

Glorfindel pushed at the slab again and with some effort got it off the ground, sending rubble tumbling down. He helped the survivor, a soldier from the House of Heavenly Arch, out from under the collapsed market stall, and watched as she limped resolutely towards the Northern Walls, where most of her kin had presumably already perished, or worse.

His own House was still gathered around him, although much diminished in numbers after they were ambushed by Balrogs on their detour to rescue Penlod, and now they were, ironically, back to where they started, in the East of the City around the Greater Markets. His own banner had been lost in the fight, the elf who carried it pierced through the stomach with a dark arrow. 

Glorfindel looked around, and his eyes landed on an orange sitting serenely in a pool of blood on the sidewalk. It must have rolled there when one of the fruit stalls was destroyed, and had somehow survived the rest of the wrecking. The flowers, on the other hand, did not. How strange, he thought, and looked at the orange. Flowers and fruits. How surreal. 

He wondered where Ecthelion was. 

He and his men had briefly heard the music of flutes while they were fighting their way away from the fire drakes, which meant Turgon must have unleashed the House of the Fountain, one of his most elite battalions. In that case Ecthelion was likely fighting somewhere around the Palace. He would like to lead his folks there too, but the way west was swarming with Orcs, and he needed to rescue survivors before he could retreat. 

Ecthelion could hold his own in any fight --- of that Glorfindel is at least confident. None save perhaps Gothmog could best him one on one. Yet the orcs and the drakes and the Balrogs were seemingly endless in numbers, and even the tower of the King would not last for long.

Glorfindel turned grimly and led his House to the south, where the last bits of the city had been overrun. 

Survivors. He must go and rescue survivors. And it was prophesied, wasn't it, by his cousin Artanis Galadriel of all people, that he would not die in Gondolin? And Galadriel had never made a false prophesy.

Then, at least, there is hope. 

As he left he took a last look at the orange, still sitting, round and sweet and perfect and solitary, beneath the blood-red sky, and remembered the streets of Tirion, and the white, almost sterile looking walls in Ecthelion's house back at Alqualondë. Remembered the day Ecthelion came in smelling of the sea and dropped a picnic basket of fruits into his lap: pears, pomegranates, brilliant apples, luscious figs, olives ripe and dark, fat grapes, oranges. Remembered kissing him and tasting the stain of fruits on his tongue. 

He drew his sword and entered the fray.

**Author's Note:**

> Spot the references.


End file.
